


The Five Lies of Lucky Luciano

by shireteapot



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Attempted Murder, F/M, Lies, Love, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 14:25:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shireteapot/pseuds/shireteapot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He tells himself the lie in the early hours of the morning, when the world is still dark and unknown outside, and he can't sleep. Over and over, like a mantra. But in the end, he knows his mantra is a lie. Something so good can't possibly last for long." Lucky x OC. Appearances from Meyer, AR & Carolyn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Five Lies of Lucky Luciano

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at Boardwalkfic during the long wait until season four. Rated Mature for Lucky's bad temper and dirty mouth. Not set at any specific point in the series so I guess it could be considered AU. Enjoy!

 

_1\. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen._

It’s a classic line; so classic in fact that he’s surprised it works as well as it does, when he knows other men use that lie so many times and in so many different ways every day. But it’s a sure-fire way to flatter a broad, and flattery is the key to getting them into bed. Play up to their ego – or comfort their low self-esteem. Draw them in with compliments and false promises, make them believe just for one night that you’re different from all those other guys, that you care, that you understand. Meyer’s never liked it much. He prefers to be a little more honest in his endeavours, always claiming that Lucky doesn’t know how to approach women, doesn’t know how to be respectful. “It’s not all about you,” he says. “You need to charm, and be open, never promise anything. Leave her in the morning feeling good and satisfied rather than like some cheap whore.” Lucky tells his partner to go fuck himself while he waits for a girl who’ll actually buy that shit. _His_ line is pure gold: it’s never failed him, ever. Until one night he sets his eyes on a pretty young brunette in a plain dress, and he fixes himself up beside her at the bar for a few hours, and he buys her drinks and listens to her talk a while about something-or-other, and then finally he grins, _You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen_ , and she punches him square in the face.

 

XxX

 

2\. _Flowers are for suckers_.

 

It’s July, and the florists are out in their masses selling their wares on the street. Hot, bright sunshine beats down on him as he moves quickly along the sidewalk, irritability growing with every second he spends out here in the city-wide high of a New York summer. Carnations and roses and tulips and crocuses are being thrust in his face and he growls at Meyer to hurry the fuck up, before they start getting hayfever. His short temper was seriously tested yesterday and he’s still pissed: after the sheer fucking lengths he went to just to find out her name and where she lived, the brunette – _Mariann_ – had let him get half a sentence out before slamming the door on him. He’s more pissed off at being dismissed than at having his not-quite-genuine apology cut off. “It’s because you didn’t mean it, Charlie,” Meyer had said. “They can tell when you don’t mean it.” Like _fuck_ they can. He’s not done. No girl gets away from Lucky Luciano without a fight; he’ll have her, eventually. Meyer pulls him back with a tug on his arm. AR’s stopped to get a bouquet made up for Carolyn so now he has no choice but to stand here, and be assaulted by the colours and smiles and laughter of the day, and let his agitation fester like an old wound. “Say, Charlie, isn’t that your girl?” Meyer gestures with a subtle tilt of his head to a stall across the street, and when he follows the man’s gaze Lucky’s eyes land on the brunette. She’s smiling as she stops to smell the bunches of blue violets, willowy figure covered up by yet another plain dress, and dark curls spill over her shoulders and Lucky finds himself scowling.

“She ain’t my broad,” he snaps, reaching for his smokes. “I’m just gonna fuck her.” Meyer shrugs.

“Maybe you should try being less lecherous,” he says calmly, “and buy the poor girl some flowers.” Lucky’s temper flares as he edges a cigarette into the corner of his mouth.

“The fuck’s _letch-ous_ mean?” Lighting up, he throws Meyer a dirty look and turns his attention back to the brunette. Her smile is gone now; she brushes the violets almost sadly with her fingertips before walking away, the buds too expensive. Lucky takes a deep drag on his cigarette, and puffs out a sharp stream of smoke. “Flowers are for suckers.”

 

XxX

 

3\. _We have time._

He tells himself the lie in the early hours of the morning, when the world is still dark and unknown outside, and he can’t sleep. Over and over, like a mantra: _we have time_. Time to be slow, for him to figure out what he has become – he isn’t used to being so _calm_ and....nice. Meyer finds it endearing and AR thinks it’s hilarious, but this time he can’t tell both of them to go fuck themselves because it would piss _her_ off, and then he’d feel bad, yada yada......and in the end, he knows his mantra is a lie. Something so good can’t possibly last for long. Lucky turns his head to look at her in the darkness of the room, a familiar willowy form so pale she seems to almost glow, like some kind of angel. Even though her back is to him and a thick, silky mass of brunette curls prevents him from seeing her face, he knows she’s definitely asleep, and he wishes he could join her. He runs a hand through his hair and rolls onto his side; his body aches from love and liquor, all tired limbs and scratches and broken skin, and he’s pretty sure her lips have left bruises over his neck. This is his favourite way to feel. Gently, so as not to wake her, Lucky reaches out and touches his fingertips to her skin. He traces the curve of her hip, ghosts the smoothness of her spine, counts every little blemish from the top of her shoulder down to her elbow. She’s not like the others. She’s not made up of jewellery or perfume, cigarettes or alcohol. It took weeks before she would even speak to him, and months more for them to reach this point. By the time she finally seduced him into his own bed that wasn’t what he was after anymore. She’s like the heroin he pushes, but only the best parts. Confidence and calmness and laughter, happiness and patience. She makes him feel things he didn’t think he would ever be capable of feeling, and it scares him to death. He runs a shining curl between his fingertips, thinking. She sighs softly in her sleep, shifting slightly, but doesn’t wake. And Lucky sighs, too, and presses his body up against hers for comfort, slips his arm around her waist and shivers at the contact. _We have time_. He makes sure there is always a vase of blue violets on their windowsill.

 

XxX

 

4\. _It’s all gonna be okay._

He can taste iron. It bites his tongue and stings his sense and there’s thick red on his hands and on his shirt and on the floor and he thinks even on his face but he has to focus has to push down hard has to stop the blood from gushing out and staining the sidewalk. “It’s all gonna be okay,” he says.  “It is.” He doesn’t know where the fuck AR is but he hopes a doctor has something to do with it, because he’s no quack and if they don’t get help soon he might as well just take his hands away now. “It’s all gonna be okay, Meyer."

“Charlie, the fuck – ”

“Try not to speak. We’re gonna get you to a doctor, okay?” That’s what you’re supposed to say, isn’t it? _Try not to speak_.

“AR – ”

“He’s gone for help – ” _He had better have fucking gone for help, Jesus._ “ – now hush.” AR returns within the minute, and as well as a doctor he has a car and a couple of guys. Together they manage to remove Lucky’s jacket and use it to staunch the bleeding instead of his hands; AR secures his own belt around Meyer’s chest to keep pressure on the wound while they move him into the car. Lucky insists they go to his place – _less obvious than yours, AR –_ and they lay Meyer out on the bed and the doc gets to work, and Lucky finally has a chance to process what has just happened. He stumbles, trembling, into the bathroom. Then he spends the next few minutes dry-heaving into the sink because the top half of his body is covered in Meyer’s blood, and _oh fuck_ what if he dies, what then? His knuckles are white around the edges of the porcelain. _It’s all gonna be okay_. He’ll find out whose man it was that shot his best friend, and he’ll kill them. He doesn’t care if it was Thompson or Torrio or Masseria or O’Banion, they’re as good as dead. Lucky’s shaking like a leaf. But what rattles him straight to the core is that Mariann was supposed to be with him today – they were going to go to the Park, all four them plus Carolyn, before the two ladies decided to get lunch together and “leave the boys to their business.” His knees go suddenly weak at this realisation and his face drains of colour underneath the blood spatter because _oh fucking God_ if it had been her, if she, if, _oh God_. He can’t breathe.

 

A little while later, Lucky pulls himself together. He washes the blood from his face and hands and returns to the bedroom, tugging on a clean shirt. The doctor is already gone. Instead he finds AR there, sitting beside the bed; Meyer, ghostly pale and wrapped in bandages, looks so small beneath the covers. AR himself looks a mess – his sleeves are pushed up and his tie’s missing, blood on his hands and smears on his face from helping the doc. He’s actually holding Meyer’s hand, and for a second Lucky’s heart stops in his chest, fearing the worst. “The bullet went straight through, nice and clean,” AR says. “He passed out, but he’s alive. The doctor says it’s touch and go.” _It’s all gonna be okay_. Meyer hasn’t got a girl to take care of him, so Lucky volunteers himself and Mariann for the job. He’s sick for a long time after that, plagued with fevers and infections. But the little guy lives, and with good care and time he makes a full recovery. Lucky doesn’t forget, though, just how easy it is for someone you love to die in this business. How real. He has nightmares for months and Mariann often has to hold him close to stop him lashing out at faceless gunmen in his sleep. She was safe with Carolyn on this occasion, but it’s definitely not okay.

 

XxX

 

The fifth lie is the worst. It eats at him for so long that he almost can’t go through with it, nearly loses his nerve. But then he remembers Meyer, and how close the man came to a sudden and violent death, and Lucky knows that he has no choice. AR tries to stop him and convince him that it isn’t necessary, but _he_ wasn’t the one who had to hold Meyer’s blood in with his bare hands. _He_ wasn’t the one who knelt there on the sidewalk watching his best friend slowly dying and unable to do anything about it. The lie is Lucky’s only choice: not for his sake, but for hers. When he finally tells it, the day before the year-mark, he’s met with more opposition that he expected. She shouts, and throws things. She punches him again, landing weak blows on his chest instead of his face this time. He catches her wrists and wishes he could tell her the truth – that he’s doing this to keep her safe from harm. That to protect her heart he has to break it first. He tries to hold her still before she hurts herself, but she wrenches free and screams at him not to touch her; and then she sinks onto the edge of their bed and for the first time she cries in front of him, full-blown sobs and tears, and Lucky feels sick with himself. He can’t stay in the room. The place is filled with too many memories, everything he needs to forget no matter how much he doesn’t want to. And then the residue of that day, and the nightmares since, seeing her die over and over and over again in his dreams and hurting more than he knew it was possible for a person to hurt, waking up against her and struggling to catch his breath as she stroked his hair and holding onto her as tightly as he could, fingertips digging desperately into her skin but she never complained, never did because she knew that whatever it was that haunted him in his sleeping hours had to be more horrific than she could ever imagine. Lucky walks away until he can no longer hear her sobbing, pouring himself a drink and wishing there was another option. But there’s not. As long as she’s with him, she’s just as much of a target as he is. The only way to keep Mariann out of danger is to let her go. He has her things gathered for her and hides money amongst her belongings, because he knows she won’t want his ‘charity’ but he won’t have her living in poverty because of him. There can be no continuous provision, no calls, no visits, no links between them. For her sake. He doesn’t cry until after she’s gone. Then he drinks, and smokes, and gets high. He never sees her again. And steadily the old anger and bitterness start to take hold and choke his heart with their familiar pains, suffocating him and poisoning his words and the very air in his lungs. He loses the man that he is and slides back into the life of the man he was. The fifth lie is the worst.

 

5\. _I don’t love you._


End file.
